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No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure.

Silent, looming. The quiet steps of the stallion appeared almost grim as he brought the oblivious lily away from the clutches of death, even though the expression was nothing but neutral. Ears danced atop the poll like cranes in spring, eyes not unlike those of a demons kept scouring the horizon for threats, obvious or not.

Silence.

It wrapped around him like a cloak, emitted from the rolling of the powerful shoulders, the sway of the long rich tail and the nodding of the crystalline horn. Oozing, like water from a spring, for each step he took; was it even possible for a creature so big to be so quiet? It was as though he wasn't actually there, as though he was nothing more than an apparition, a ghost returned from the realm of the dead to... to do what? In any case, the warmth radiating from his skin as he walked by the shoulder of the pale lady revealed that he was undoubtedly a living being. Sculpted from flesh and bone, he would bleed like anyone else when cut.

Whether he was crying on the inside as the pristine femme shattered the quiet to voice her apology... That was impossible to tell. Even as he turned the head to look at her the expression remained closed, stony, lacking of any telltale emotion. When the lips tugged back into a faint smile it held little warmth, and only a shadow of the mirth he once had shown her... Surely, if her memories returned, she would notice the difference and realize just how much she had hurt him.
"I am sorry that I don't remember you."

"Don't be" he replied, allowing the dusky orbs to rest on her lither frame for a moment before returning to watch the horizon. "I'm sure you will be given a chance to redeem yourself at some point. No matter what you do, as long as you don't forget and strive to become better than you were, there is never a reason to carry guilt around."

Was she forgiven? No. Djinn wasn't so quick to forgive, not so quick to heal as to forget transgressions. But neither was he so low as to carry around anger towards someone who apparently couldn't remember why he had a reason for it. Ophelia's amnesia didn't absolve her of her crime, but how could he stay mad at her when she looked up at him with that kind of expression? Innocent, sweet, undeniably beautiful.

The stride of the ebony maned mercenary slowed into a halt and breathed out in a faint sigh. For a while, lids lowered over the ominous eyes as he tried to decide what to say, whether to play with her or not, whether she deserved to know that which she had so easily cast aside. If he'd known that her choice to fall into oblivion and forget everything had been voluntary, almost eagerly made... But he didn't.

"Very well, I'll tell you what I know," he said after a while. Orbs flicked open, turning to gaze into hers in an unrelenting way - to deliver his honestly spoken words, whether they would be welcome or not.
"Your name is Ophelia. When we met for the first time in the Threshold of this land, you introduced yourself as a mercenary. A leader of a band of cutthroats and word-mongers called The Gray, led in unison by you and your sister, a black mare named Ktulu; mother of a winged child, followed by a bears cub, a mare who almost killed me because she deemed me unworthy to follow you. You and your sister hail from the same land as I, a land to the east called Isilme. We spoke of it some, and from that I learned that the place has become overrun with darkness, and a piece of your heart along with it. I don't know what you lost back there, but whatever it was, it still haunts you.

As for who I am, or why I'm standing here right now.. I am Djinn, a mercenary hailing from the Mystic Woodlands in the land of Isilme. Called Demon-Eye by some, a fool by most, but for some reason not by you. You invited me to join the ranks of your group, and I swore to follow you, watch your back and aid you in whatever way possible."

The stream of words was relentless, the eyes of the rogue ruthless in their undeniable honesty. He could have tricked her so easily. It would have been a simple matter to weave a cloak of lies to wrap her in, a blindfold more vicious than the one she already wore; for his own high amusement, his own sake, he could have told her anything. But it wasn't in his nature to do so. The core of this tall, strong youngster was not the mask of a jester he showed to everyone, but rather it was honesty. Cold, brutal, reckless honesty, whether it brought hell upon him or not; he spoke his mind, and allowed those who wished to see him as a fool to do so.

Did she welcome the truths he offered her?

Nor is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain.

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